


so far to fall

by The13thBlackCat



Series: Maker, Know My Heart [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: 'which is hilariously ironic when they end up together', Conflict, Everyone Has Issues, First Meetings, Gen, Internal Conflict, Pre-Canon, because those ones, what are tags for 'characters meet and bitch'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The13thBlackCat/pseuds/The13thBlackCat
Summary: A short time after being transferred to Kirkwall, Cullen encounters one of the mages there, and identifies him as a problem.He has no idea how right he is. Or how wrong.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford & Original Character(s)
Series: Maker, Know My Heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/485726
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

It was getting dark in the Gallows as the sun set, and Cullen found himself mostly alone there, keeping a distracted eye on the courtyard as everyone else began to filter out.

It wasn’t really his job, to keep watch this late in the day, but he told himself it did some good to show the other templars that their knight-captain was just as willing to take on the more boring jobs. In truth, he was avoiding the paperwork waiting for him in his office. Sleep didn’t come easily to him these days—it hadn’t ever since Ferelden’s Circle had fallen—and work was his main distraction from it, but…even so, paperwork wasn’t exactly enjoyable. He supposed that was the downside of his station.

Besides, he preferred to be out here, when he could. His office—or private quarters, as rarely as he was in them—was large by Gallows standards, but he’d rather have the openness of the courtyard. It was less confining.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him from his thoughts, and he glanced up, attention perked. He— _any_ templar—knew better than to ignore even the tiniest twitch of something suspicious when on duty…and, frankly, the flash of an apprentice’s blue robe around the corner of a wall was more suspicious than most things he might see.

The mages should have been back inside the Circle, this late: curfew was soon. And judging by what little he’d seen, that had been one of the younger apprentices. Heaving a sigh, the knight-captain started off after them, his hand absently falling to rest on the pommel of his sword.

He reminded himself, firmly, not to be too harsh or blunt: he knew the mages didn’t trust their templar guards—

— _worse, he knew they **feared** them; he had seen it in some of their eyes, a flicker of distrust and dread that **felt** familiar, in ways he didn’t want to think about—_

—and that he, himself, had a reputation (he could hardly _avoid_ that, given his age and rank—one didn’t become knight-captain so young without rumors swirling around him), and he didn’t want to traumatize the poor child.

Before he caught up to them, though, he heard something that made him balk for a moment, frowning: soft giggling (more than one voice), then excited, shrill little gasps (quickly muffled)…and before he could reach a conclusion on that, there was a _ripple_ on the air that made him tense and his skin prickle nervously.

Magic.

Forgetting his initial intentions, Cullen grit his teeth, rounding the corner and preparing to—well. _Someone_ was certainly in trouble, anyway.

That someone, as it turned out, was a mage—not an apprentice, not even one of the older ones, but a proper, Harrowed mage, judging by the green and yellow of his robes. He hadn’t noticed Cullen yet, focused as he was on the gaggle of children gathered around him, half-hidden by a pile of fallen masonry that had been there longer than Cullen had been in Kirkwall. Cullen paused for a moment, taking in the scene and assessing it quickly.

The mage in question was an elf, dark-skinned and dark-haired, and the nine children with him ranged in age from—if he had to guess—somewhere around seven to twelve, a mix of elves and humans and all in the blue and purple robes of apprentice mages. They were gathered in a tight circle, crowded into the small, half-hidden space, around the mage, who was crouched in the center of them doing—well, something. Cullen couldn’t actually see that part past a blonde human girl who seemed to be one of the oldest of the group, but the feel of magic on the air and the purple-blue light glowing between them told him plenty, anyway.

He cleared his throat, loudly. “Magic is not a _toy_ , mage.”

Every single one of them snapped their heads up, the elves’ ears pricking.

_(It reminded him, distantly, of how a frightened deer looked up when it smelled a wolf. He didn’t like the thought, and shoved it aside.)_

The mage shot to his feet instantly, putting himself between Cullen and the children and shooing the ones closest to Cullen behind him. It was almost absurd—Cullen had no intention of hurting any of them, and besides that, the mage in question was…well, built like most elves, to be honest. He was nearly Cullen’s height, but _thin_ —and not the wiry, tough kind of thinness humans more often had, but a more fragile-looking sort common to elves.

But any amusement Cullen might have found at the absurdity of the gesture was quickly eclipsed by the expression the mage leveled on him: he was _glaring_ at Cullen. The mages here were different from the ones in Ferelden—more often, they avoided his eyes entirely, and when they didn’t, they were careful and polite, even when angered. This one, though, looked up at him with such a raw, open _fury_ that it immediately set Cullen on edge and had him absent-mindedly shifting his hand from the pommel of his sword to the hilt, before he stopped himself.

“Nor did I ever claim it was, _ser_ ,” the mage answered back, snapping off the last word with startling venom—more of a mockery than actual deference to Cullen’s rank. “Aren’t we supposed to be _teaching_ our apprentices how to use their magic?”

Cullen paused for a breath before answering, inhaling slowly and meeting the mage’s eyes. His were bright blue— _like the color of a clear sky at midday_ —and his pupils glinted briefly, like animal eyes, and he refused to look away…or even blink, as far as Cullen could tell. A nervous thrill washed down his spine. _This one was dangerous._

Absurd. Probably. He knew that. The mage was angry—angrier than Cullen had seen _any_ mage, here, angry enough to stand up to a templar—but he would know better than to do anything, surely. Especially…Cullen’s eyes flicked past him, for a moment, to the apprentices huddled behind him, deathly still and silent and staring back, terrified.

“You are _meant,_ ” Cullen answered, trying to keep his voice even— _trying not to betray his own nerves_ —and firm, “to teach them _control_ , and you’re certainly not meant to do it out here, past curfew.”

The mage let out a breath: it sounded shaky and nervous to Cullen—

_—(how much of his apparent anger was redirected **fear** , Cullen wondered)—_

—and it brought his attention back to the man obviously responsible for…whatever it was Cullen had caught them doing. Before he could answer, Cullen cut his eyes to the apprentices again, pointedly this time before returning them to the mage. _Don’t make this worse for them._

“Besides, apprentices should be readying themselves for bed, at this hour. Studies start early, as you are all well aware.” He paused for a moment, letting that sink in. “I assume you all can find your way back to your quarters without an escort?”

The mage didn’t say anything for a moment, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenching. He was about to say or do something, Cullen was sure of it. Very faintly, the air rippled, so slight that anyone else might not have noticed it at all—but Cullen did, and his eyes hardened warningly, his grip shifting back to the hilt of his sword. He didn’t want to have to do anything that would scare the apprentices, but if the mage forced the matter…

The children themselves barely seemed willing to even risk breathing…not until , very softly, one of them—a girl, Cullen thought, by the sound—let out a little noise, a shrill whimper. Cullen’s eyes cut to the children briefly—an elf boy had looked away from him, quietly shushing a younger elf girl at his side and telling her it would be okay—and the mage’s ears twitched, his eyes flicking to the side for a moment.

He looked back up at Cullen, unblinking…and then dropped his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. All at once, something in him seemed to change, his shoulders softening _(but his hands remained clenched at his sides, Cullen noted, shaking just a little)_ and his ears lowering a little. Most humans probably wouldn’t have noticed the last part, but Cullen was…

... _had been_...

…familiar with elves, and he’d picked up on a lot of the little hints of expression their ears tended to convey.

“Yes, ser,” he answered finally. His voice was softer now: it still had a tightness to it, a tension, but it felt less angry now, and more _controlled._ Cullen had caught on to how the mages often spoke to templars, in Kirkwall, and it was all the same: a sort of flat, manufactured tone that was meant to be as inoffensive as possible. He frowned for a moment at the thought, but tried not to focus on it. Instead, he half-turned away, keeping his eyes on them but trying to look at least _slightly_ less confrontational.

Only then did the mage back away. He never fully turned his back to Cullen—and those bright blue eyes flickered back up to him, more than once—when he turned his attention back to the children. For all the anger and barely-contained venom he’d displayed to Cullen, he was a completely different man with the apprentices: his voice was soft and gentle when he shushed them and apologized for all of this, dabbing away a few tears with the hem of his robe and reassuring them that they’d all done nothing wrong and it would be okay. For a moment, Cullen though _well, no, they very much **were** doing something wrong_, but he stifled the thought a second later. They were, after all, only children: the fault here was with the lone adult in the group, who _should_ know better.

Once they had settled, he ushered them past Cullen—he kept his eyes on the knight-captain, and was always sure to put himself between the apprentices and Cullen—and sent them back to the Circle. The last to go was one of the youngest ones, a human girl with dark, curly hair, who looked up at Cullen with a sharp little spark in her eyes that set him on edge. _Wonderful. She, at least, seemed to have something in common with the man who had started all this to begin with._

Once the mage managed to convince her to go, he let out a slow breath that shook, a little. He didn’t move to follow them, however, or look at Cullen, his eyes downcast as he awaited the templar’s attention. For a moment, Cullen noticed the way his hands shook: he had been hiding it before, masking it with movement as he comforted the apprentices. Before, with his hands clenched, Cullen had suspected it was effort to try and contain his magic…now, loose, it looked more like nerves.

“Mage.” The mage didn’t look up, but his ears twitched, clear indication that he was listening. “What’s your name?” _Best to make note of this one. He was trouble._

For a second, he shifted his weight, folding his hands in front of him. His fingers went to the hems of his sleeves, worrying the edge of the fabric.

“You won’t remember it.”

His voice was mild, but the answer was unusually defiant…though, Cullen thought, maybe not _so_ unusual, for this particular mage. A second of silence stretched between them while Cullen considered how to respond to his refusal to answer. Before he could, though, the mage added simply:

“Maenfen.”

 _Maenfen._ Not the strangest name Cullen had heard—as near as he could tell, it seemed like a very typical elf name—but he made note of it, studying the mage _(Maenfen)_ for a moment to be sure he did, in fact, remember him. His expression was blank, now, his gaze distant and avoiding Cullen directly, but Cullen wasn’t about to forget their initial confrontation that quickly, or the sharp spark of rebellion he’d seen in those blue eyes.

For a moment—a painful, sharp moment—he remembered another elf mage who had been similar, and different. He’d been paler, with black tattoos on his face and a quick, easy smile, but the eyes had been the same: big, blue as the midday sky, with a sparkle of rebellion in them. But with him, that rebellion had been playful, conspiratorial: an _invitation._

Cullen swallowed, hard, forcing the memory back down. His chest clenched, painfully, as he tried to refocus on the present, and on the mage currently in front of him.

“Maenfen, then.” He moved to stand in front of the mage, noting how Maenfen’s gaze didn’t raise to meet his again. “This was a warning, and one I hope you take to heart. The last thing the apprentices need is to learn any…bad habits, that might disrupt their studies.”

For a second, he considered the dark-haired girl who had been last to leave. _Any more than they already have,_ he added mentally, with an internal sigh.

Maenfen looked up at that, and for a moment, there was a flash of anger in his eyes and the clench of his jaw.

“Do not treat me like a child, or act as if you’re concerned for them.” His voice was low, his nostrils flaring as he hissed: “You would kill us or make us all Tranquil if you could, _templar._ ”

There was a heartbeat of silence and Cullen blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in the mage. Maenfen seemed to realize he’d overstepped an instant after the words were out, though, because he went tense, dropping his eyes again. His breathing had gone hard, and he was fidgeting more intensely with his sleeves, now, though he tried not to be too obvious about it.

For a moment, Cullen wanted to react to the accusation with his own anger, but he took a moment to repress it. Maenfen was on edge, right now: worse, he was _scared._ Cullen could see that much in his body language. And that, he didn’t like. Mages being _angry_ at their confinement in the Circles, he could understand—once, even he had wondered if the Circles weren’t, perhaps, too harsh. But _fear_ —that wasn’t something Maenfen should have been feeling. Mages weren’t supposed to _fear_ templars—they were there as much to keep the _mages_ safe, as to keep others safe _from_ them.

But, even so, Cullen knew other templars could be…harsh. And here, in Kirkwall, perhaps Maenfen had seen more of than that the alternative.

“Our role as templars is to _protect_ you, Maenfen,” he answered after a moment, coolly, “from others as much as from yourselves. Tranquility or death are options that should only be used as a final resort: not in haste, and certainly not without great need. _Do not_ paint us all with the same brush.”

Maenfen’s eyes flickered up, briefly, but before he could answer Cullen stepped aside, jerking his chin towards the Circle. “Return to your quarters. And I’d best not see you outside after curfew again.”

The mage didn’t answer, simply leaving once Cullen had dismissed him. He moved quickly, as if he was simultaneously desperate to get away from Cullen, and unwilling to make that fact too obvious. Cullen let out a little breath, shaking his head once the mage began ascending the steps to the Circle proper. He doubted Maenfen would defy him so soon, but he kept his eyes on him until he was gone, nonetheless.

Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, Cullen started back into the courtyard, heading for the templar quarters.

That one was going to be trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter, in Maenfen's POV.

It was nearly dusk in the Gallows, and Maenfen was watching the sky as he waited, his ears pricked for the sound of nearby movement. A white bird flew past—a seagull, probably—and he wondered, for a moment, where it was going. Probably home. He hoped it was a nice one: a warm nest tucked into the side of one of the harbor's cliffs, maybe. 

He knew they were cutting things close today: curfew was soon, but dusk meant fewer templars patrolling the courtyard. Worth it, for a few minutes of near-freedom, of not having them breathing down the back of your neck. He shuddered at the thought.

The first of the apprentices to arrive was also one of the oldest: Natalia, a blonde human girl who had turned twelve last month. He remembered that specifically because it wasn't easy, arranging a quiet birthday party in the Gallows without attracting attention. But they'd managed. She had two of the others with her when she arrived: Ilris, her best friend (no surprise he'd come with her, they were rarely apart), and Merriya, a slightly younger girl who was new to the Circle. She'd arrived only a few weeks ago—he knew _that_ because he'd been there when they'd made her phylactery. That wasn't unusual—it was common knowledge that Maenfen had a way with children, and he was often called upon to help calm them down when they were first brought here.

It killed him, every single time. But easing their transition into Circle life was more important than his own feelings.

He didn't know Merriya too well—she was shy and quiet—but she had seemed to take to him well when they'd first met, and she was fond of Ilris and Natalia...or seemed to be, anyway, since she was often in their company. It wasn't too surprising they'd convinced her to come along, today.

The rest of their group trickled in slowly, mostly one at a time, occasionally in small groups: Braeden, Firi, Maida, Yves, Riston, Cyrlan, Nolawyn. They were quick and quiet, because they knew better than to be anything else: if the templars caught them, that would be the end of their evenings out here. It wasn't even really like they were doing anything truly _wrong_ ; mostly, this was just an excuse to get away from templar eyes, for just a second. And...maybe to give the apprentices a slightly more hands-on look at the magic they would someday control. Nothing dangerous, of course—Maenfen would never risk that—but something more fun and interesting than their usual studies. He knew how those were, and he knew what it was like to be a young mage, with all this energy buzzing in your veins, and everyone telling you not to use it.

The least he could do was be one person _not_ telling them their magic was a bad thing.

The spot they'd found was a secluded little bit of the courtyard, near where the Tranquil conducted their business during the day, but blocked off by some fallen stone nobody had ever bothered to clear out. It was getting a little cramped, now, as their group got bigger, but for the moment, it served: and besides, they were never out here too long. He watched with some amusement as the apprentices arranged themselves, bickering quietly over their preferred spots, but his attention wasn't really on them: it was elsewhere, listening for the sound of armored boots.

Once they had settled and he'd decided it was safe, he cleared his throat softly, allowing his attention to fully focus on the children. He gave them a moment to go quiet, then began, his voice low: "Well, I see we all made it in one piece."

Almost as soon as the words were out, though, he realized he was wrong: one of them was missing. His ears pricked and he frowned, glancing over them again and taking stock. "Wait. Where's Paige?"

Braeden opened his mouth to answer, but before he could a voice cut in: "I'm here!"

Maenfen looked up, just as a dark-haired human girl of seven stumbled in, out of breath. She began to dust her robes off, beginning, "I'm sorry, Maenfen, there were templars _everywhere_ and I didn't want them to see me—"

Maenfen broke into a little laugh, pulling her into the group and over to her usual spot. "Alright, alright, hush now, before one of them hears you. Okay." He sat back, popping his fingers as he looked them over again, checking off names in his head. Paige sat down with a huffy breath. "Well, now that we're _actually_ all here..." He paused, breaking into a little grin, then leaned in conspiratorially before continuing, his voice low like he was sharing a secret with them: "I believe I promised to show you force magic today, didn't I?"

His grin widened at the hushed, excited chorus of affirmations. While Kirkwall was somewhat known for producing force mages, it wasn't a common school of magic—it was complicated, and rarely practiced by anyone but older mages. But, he'd always had a talent for it, and he was the youngest force mage in the Circle at present, despite being only two years out of his own Harrowing—and the only one willing to show the apprentices any of it. He wasn't a powerful mage, but he knew enough to impress them, and that was what mattered.

"Alright, I'll warn you," he began, sitting back, "it's not as _flashy_ as fire or lightning..." He motioned with his hands like he was gathering the air to him, his attention going to the space in the middle of the circle they'd made—purple light sparked to life around his fingers, and gravity shifted, turning inwards. A few of the apprentices gasped softly in surprise when the effect reached them, tugging their robes and hair and anything else loose towards the center, and for a moment, Maenfen allowed himself a little grin.

_He remembered what that had been like, once, to be so **fascinated** by the magic in your veins, the tingle of it against your skin._

"...but I promise you," he continued, "it is _just_ as dangerous, so I'd better not hear about any of you trying this yourselves." To punctuate his point, he abruptly reversed the pull of gravity with a snap of his wrists, sending a weak push of force outwards in a blast that made the apprentices shriek quietly in surprise and brace themselves. But it had barely been anything at all—little more than sensation and air rather than actual force—and they were grinning once it was past. They never got to see magic this close, to _feel_ it.

Unsurprisingly, there was a protest.

"You started learning force magic when you were eight, Maenfen!" Paige piped up at his side, indignant and huffy, but thankfully quiet. "I'm _almost_ eight! And Natalia and Ilris and Nolawyn and Yves are all older than me! You could teach _us!_ "

"I absolutely could _not_ ," Maenfen answered with a short laugh before Yves could back her up—he would, Maenfen knew he would, the boy was nothing if not quick to jump at anything _exciting._ " _I_ only got to learn it so young because the First Enchanter said so, and only because it was the only thing I was good at." He tapped her nose lightly with a little pulse of force that ruffled her hair. "Besides, you are not almost eight."

"I will be in nine months," Paige answered sullenly, pouting up at him.

"Doesn't matter. No. Not unless you get Orsino to say yes, miss," he answered with a grin. Honestly, it wouldn't even surprise him too much if she _tried_ to—luckily, though, Paige was also easily distracted, and her teachers knew not to let her get into trouble, so she would probably not have enough time to hunt the First Enchanter down. Probably.

Purple light lit up in Maenfen's palms, shaping itself into a roiling ball of force. "You're just going to have to settle for this, right now," he continued, shifting his attention back to the group at large—at least, for a moment, until they were interrupted by someone loudly clearing his throat.

"Magic is not a _toy_ , mage."

Maenfen released the spell in an instant, every one of them snapping their heads up. A single templar stood a short distance away, glaring down at the group. At _Maenfen,_ specifically, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Before Maenfen could think, he was on his feet, darting through the apprentices to put himself between them and the templar, and shooing the ones closest to him behind him. It was uncomfortably close to the man in question, but he couldn't very well back away—so instead, Maenfen met his glare with one of his own, warning.

"Nor did I ever claim it was, _ser_ ," he answered, snapping off the last word too harshly and swearing in his head when he realized it. _Too much, too much._ The templars didn't like them with backbone. His breathing felt too hard. “Aren’t we supposed to be _teaching_ our apprentices how to use their magic?” He hoped the question would distract the templar from the slip in tone, even as he realized he was still sounding too angry and confrontational. The templar was only a bit taller than him, but that didn't make him less intimidating, or put them on more equal ground: Maenfen was _painfully_ aware that the man in front of him could have killed him in a second, without even trying.

 _Shouldn't have said anything._ He knew that. He _knew_ that. The smart thing to be would be to back down, to be deferential, to hope maybe the templar was in a good mood and would let them off with a warning. He swallowed, painfully aware of the apprentices he was shielding, silent now that they'd been caught doing something they all knew was breaking the rules. Maker help him, they were all too young to even _know_ what happened to a mage who broke the rules. _Please, don't let them find out today._

The templar was quiet for a second, taking a breath, and Maenfen tried not to focus on how his own breath shuddered in his chest. He didn't look down, holding the templar's gaze as his magic pulsed erratically under his skin, rippling against his fingertips and gathering in his gut. He kept it there, though; it wouldn't be any use against a templar anyway. And even if it _wouldn't_ have simply made the situation so much worse, Maenfen had been on the receiving end of a holy smite before—he had no desire to repeat the experience. Particularly not in front of his children.

The templar's eyes flicked past him, briefly, for just a second before he answered. “You are _meant_ to teach them _control_ , and you’re certainly not meant to do it out here, past curfew.” His voice was firm and even, and it made Maenfen bite his tongue to keep from snapping back in response. _So sure of himself, so sure he knows better for us than we do._ He exhaled, short and shaky. _Too shaky, don't let him know you're afraid, he **wants** you afraid, so don't give him the satisfaction._

The templar cut his eyes past Maenfen again, lingering this time, and Maenfen's throat tightened. He'd hoped, somehow, he could distract the templar enough, keep him focused on _him_ so he didn't notice the children enough to recognize any of them after this, but he didn't like the silent indication to them. "Besides," the man continued, _so sure of himself and superior that it made Maenfen's gut clench,_ "apprentices should be readying themselves for bed, at this hour. Studies start early, as you are all well aware." His gaze came back to Maenfen, resting on him for a moment. "I assume you all can find your way back to your quarters without an escort?"

Maenfen's throat was too tight to respond, his breathing hard and his jaw clenching. There was a ripple of magic around his hands, and the templar noticed it—of course he did, of _course_ —and his gaze hardened warningly, his hand shifting slightly on his sword.

Before Maenfen could do something else stupid, though, there was a short, shrill whimper behind him—and then Ilris' voice, shushing Merriya as quietly as he could. Maenfen's eyes flicked to the side and he swallowed, hard. He brought his eyes back up to meet the templar's, and for a second, said nothing.

Then, finally, he forced himself to relax, dropping his eyes and letting out a short breath. _Eyes down, shoulders down, try not to be tense, keep your magic where it belongs. Nonthreatening. Be nonthreatening._

"Yes, ser." His voice had softened, the emotion carefully washed out of it— _calm, quiet, agreeable. Too tense, still too tense, but maybe he won't care?_ The children were more important that this argument. It wouldn't matter anyway—it wasn't one Maenfen could win.

That seemed to be the correct answer, since the templar backed away a bit, half-turning. He didn't take his eyes off them, but it was the best they were going to get; Maenfen took a half-step back once he had, trying to focus. _The children. Deal with them. Maybe he could still make the best of this._

He never quite took his eyes off the templar, never turned his back fully to him, but his attention was on the apprentices now. They were still silent and terrified, the poor things...especially Merriya. _Poor girl. So shy and quiet, and this is what happens the first time she joined them._ She would probably never look at a templar sideways for the rest of her life.

Maenfen couldn't help but feel the gaze of the templar still watching them, and it left a bitter, sharp taste in the back of his throat. _Well, that should please him, shouldn't it._

He choked the thought back, though, gathering the children to him. _Don't let them see you angry. They're already scared._

"I'm sorry," he began softly, his voice gentle, "this is my fault. Don't worry, none of you did anything wrong, it's going to be alright." He cut his eyes to the templar briefly, wondering if he was going to interrupt and correct him, but he said nothing. Maenfen shook his head a little, focusing his attention back on the apprentices. He spent a moment shushing them and dabbing away tears, then gently ushered them past the templar, keeping himself between them. He didn't care how obvious he was about it, but the templar remained silent.

Paige was the last to go, pausing for a moment to cast a glare at the man who had interrupted them, until Maenfen shooed her off. He let out a shaking breath once she'd headed off towards the Circle. _Of course she would, brave little thing that she is. Please, please let it not be enough for him to remember her._

Maenfen stayed put, though, as much as he wanted to go with them, watching the children disappear back into the Circle. He knew better than to try. They may have gotten off lightly (he hoped, he _hoped_ ) but he wouldn't. He was the one who had started this, after all, and the one who had been deliberately breaking the rules. Even a templar couldn't blame a bunch of children for doing something an adult said was alright, could he? Maybe. If they were lucky.

"Mage."

Maenfen's ears twitched, his throat going tight. That word, in that tone, was never good.

"What's your name?"

_This one didn't know_ _him._ Not surprising—he hadn't used Maenfen's name, after all. He swallowed, his fingers going to the hems of his sleeves, worrying the fabric.

"You won't remember it."

_Calm, quiet, agreeable._ His tone had been even, but he winced internally as soon as the words were out. It was too much, too defiant, too close to an outright refusal to answer. The templar didn't answer immediately, and before he could, Maenfen added:

"Maenfen."

He couldn't do much with a name, anyway, and even if Maenfen had refused to answer on principle, it would hardly have mattered. Most of the templars knew him. It wouldn't have taken more than a brief description— _the brown, blue-eyed elf_ —for one of them to identify him.

He moved to stand in front of Maenfen, and Maenfen almost raised his eyes to look at him, curious who _he_ was—just like the templars knew him, he knew the templars, and he didn't think he knew this one. He kept his eyes down, though.

"Maenfen, then. This was a warning, and one I hope you take to heart. The last thing the apprentices need is to learn any…bad habits, that might disrupt their studies.”

Maenfen bit the inside of his cheek at that, his eyes snapping up despite himself and his jaw going tight. _How **dare** he. How **dare** he act as if he **cared**._

The words were out in a hiss before he could catch himself.

"Do not treat me like a child, or act as if you’re concerned for them. You would kill us or make us all Tranquil if you could, _templar._ ”

There was a heartbeat of silence and a cold wash of panic down Maenfen's spine as he realized what he'd said; his eyes dropped again, immediately, his breathing hard and sharp as he tugged at his sleeves, worrying a loose thread until it began to unravel. _Could you just not say something blitheringly stupid for a **second,** Maenfen? Could you **try** that, even once?_

The silence between them seemed to stretch on for eternity, and Maenfen was painfully aware of a metallic, acrid taste in the back of his mouth and a cold sweat that had broken out on his shoulders. Under his fingers, the fabric tore a little.

Finally, the templar seemed to gather himself. “Our role as templars is to _protect_ you, Maenfen,” he answered, his voice cool. Maenfen hated hearing him use his name, and briefly regretted giving it to him. “...from others as much as from yourselves. Tranquility or death are options that should only be used as a final resort: not in haste, and certainly not without great need. _Do not_ paint us all with the same brush.”

Maenfen's eyes snapped up again at that, and even though he bit his tongue to stop himself from saying something else stupid— _a **final resort?** Did Dea deserve the brand? Did Mihren or Adras or Lambert? Never mind that every one of them had been Harrowed, and should have never been branded to start, because **that** had never meant **anything**_ —he almost did anyway. But, before he could get the words out, the templar stepped aside, jerking his chin towards the Circle.

“Return to your quarters. And I’d best not see you outside after curfew again.”

_Or **what, ser?**_ Maenfen kept the comment to himself, but he thought it, harshly. _What could you **possibly** do to me?_ He knew, he _knew_ , but...would it even matter? Would it really?

He didn't say anything, though, simply starting back towards the Circle as quickly as he could, short of outright running. He'd just now noticed his hands were shaking— _Maker help him, they always did this, around templars_ —and he clenched them tightly, trying to stop it.

_Just get back to the Circle. Don't focus on anything else._ It wasn't safer there, but it was more familiar, and less open. At least with a wall at his back, it was harder for someone to come up behind him.

He tried to focus on that thought as he got to the Circle's steps, and not the templar he was leaving behind.


End file.
